


Just a shadow in your empty shell

by FancifulRivers



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Aborted No Mercy Route, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced House Fire, Implied/Referenced Murder, Implied/Referenced Suicide, No Mercy Route, Past Poisoning, Spoilers - No Mercy Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:51:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5977468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancifulRivers/pseuds/FancifulRivers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chara has work to do.</p>
<p>Don't they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a shadow in your empty shell

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Undertale.
> 
> Title is taken from/inspired by "Bold Sans (Violent Version)" by Groundbreaking!

You can't control yourself.

You used to hate it. You remember plunging the knife into Mom's back, watching her crumble into dust. It clings to your fingers like ash. You cry, the tear tracks cutting down your grimy face. When you see your reflection, it reminds you of the house fire when you were seven, the way you stumbled into the backyard after your parents. They left you there, covered in ash, your shoes smoldering.

Maybe something else burnt up then, too, because now you don't feel  _anything_. 

Frisk does, you think. You still feel slivers of guilt, wedged between your ribs. Your eyes still drip at the corners, and your fingers wobble on the handle of the knife between fights.

When you attack, though, your hands are steady.

You can't remember anymore why you're doing this. There's no  _point_. It's not like before, when a handful of buttercups was your only prayer of saving the monsters. You remember the pain that uncurled through your middle, the blisters that popped and left freshets of agony in their wake. You remember the blood bubbling in your lungs, spilling up your throat.

You remember Asriel dying.

"Stop crying," you snarl at Frisk when those memories slip up on you, scrubbing at your eyes roughly with dusty fists. They look at you in dozy confusion. When you peek inside, their eyes are dry. They must have stopped, you dismiss, and don't stop to think why your cheeks are still damp. You don't know when your mind went from saving the monsters to destroying them all.

You have to destroy them, to save them from themselves. That was your mother's motto, all the times she left you outside with the dog. You didn't mind; he was better company. When she figured that out, she got more inventive. But so did you. Monsters will win, you remember whispering under your breath when you were nine years old, the kitchen knife clasped in your hand, as you stood over her snoring form. If thunder hadn't clapped then- if you hadn't been afraid it would wake her up- if you hadn't lost your nerve, feeling it run out from your arms like water- 

Would you still be here?

It doesn't matter. You shake your head. You focus. You're not done yet, and you can't afford to miss even a single monster. They're afraid of you now, you think, laughter bubbling in your throat. Afraid of a scrawny-ass little kid in a striped sweater, holding a dinky little knife like a toy.

_Chara,_ Frisk says tentatively. You scowl.  _Please- we can stop- you don't have to do this-_

"Yes, I  _do_ ," you snarl, fingers trembling and ghost traces of buttercup petals thick against your lips. "You don't understand-"

_Do you?_ they shoot back, and you freeze. They take advantage of your immobility, unpeeling your fingers one knuckle at a time from the knife handle. It clatters to the ground.

"Hey," you protest, feeling your lips wrinkle back from your teeth in anger. "Give that back-"

_Chara, this isn't you,_ Frisk says, nearly pleading.  _I don't know what it is. But it's not you. You're not a monster._

"Tell that to my mom," you say roughly, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists.

_The person who gave birth to you isn't your mom,_ Frisk insists.  _That's Toriel._

You sag, and feel Frisk take over, guiding the body to a sitting position, instead of a graceless thump. 

"W-what have I done?" you whisper, staring at Frisk's knees, at the band-aid just starting to unpeel over the left. It doesn't make sense. The surety that has filled you until now is evaporating slowly, running out like trickles of dust through your fingers.

_Please stop,_ Frisk says again, softly. You look up. You can see Papyrus in the distance, waiting. You shiver, the cold suddenly hitting you.

Your hand creeps out, touching the handle of the knife. It's still warm, and you can see yourself reflected in the blade. You pause. You want to laugh again, but you don't know why. It hurts to stand up, but you do anyway, feeling each creaky bone settle into place.

_We can reset,_ Frisk offers. You shake your head.

"Not yet," you say aloud.

The knife glitters behind you as you make your way toward Papyrus. You have a lot to atone for.

**Author's Note:**

> Ahem, in reality, the _player_ has a lot to atone for, but you know. Chara doesn't know about them. :P


End file.
